By Beth Sherman

I prayed for a hurricane – palm trees yanked up by the roots, electricity snuffed, houses filled with so much water you could steer a rowboat through them. I prayed from the couch in our third-floor apartment as I watched 21 inches of rain come down. I prayed while we ate the English muffin grilled cheese with bacon bits my dad made because he was home, canceled from work. I prayed while we watched the TV news, the three of us all together. A family. The Weather Channel said a tropical cyclone is a low-pressure area exceeding 75 miles per hour and I prayed for that.

In the summer of ’85, Tropical Storm Bob dropped 21 inches of rain on the state of Florida. Schools were closed. Everything came to a stop.

My dad pushed our sofa against the sliding glass doors to the terrace, barricading us in. Wind pounded our concrete building as if meting out a punishment. Too worried to fight, my parents held hands and reminisced about their honeymoon. A week in Aruba where the sea was so see-through they watched fish swim through each other’s hands. Now, my father kept stroking my mother’s hair, saying it’s alright it’s alright. For once I believed him.

Bob was a dorky name for a hurricane. I didn’t have much faith in its forcefulness. I sat by the window willing raindrops to roll faster. The streets were empty. Something grey tumbled into the gutter. A cardboard box? A cat? From the safety of the barricades, I couldn’t tell.

In the night, they started up again. Accusations. Recriminations. Name calling. Blame. Deflections. Re-armament. If only. You should have. Their words battered the apartment, poked holes in the flimsy stucco, letting the rain sloosh in.

Two days later, Bob weakened, absorbed by a front over eastern West Virginia. But not before causing $20 million in damages and five indirect deaths. What, you may ask, is an indirect death? When the stoplights aren’t working causing car to crash. Or you’re having a heart attack but the ambulance can’t get here soon enough. Or a marriage, held together by duct tape and tears, buckles, then splinters to pieces.

Bob fizzled and evaporated, followed by four more tropical storms that year. My father moved out. My mother fell apart. But my yearning for storms persisted. I prayed and prayed and eventually turned hurricane. Capricious. Uncontrollable. A cyclone funneling above the ocean, far from shore.  

~~~

Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.